


Fights and Flights (to New York)

by shiverfawkes



Series: Cumberbatch Crossover [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Violence, Drunk Sherlock Holmes, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Spoilers, Stephen Strange is a good brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 21:51:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16689556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverfawkes/pseuds/shiverfawkes
Summary: John and Sherlock have a row.Sherlock ends up at Stephens door, drenched, alone and unexpected.Stephen Stark is a fantastic brother.(add on to "Reunion of Brothers")





	Fights and Flights (to New York)

**Author's Note:**

> so much of this is pure dialogue. people wanted more, so I gave them it. I was meant to be doing biology homework but whatever, rewatching the drunk scene in sherlock repeatedly is a better use of my time anyway. 
> 
> Im tired. its nearly 3am
> 
> im gonna go do that biology homework now.

It was cold in New York as winter fell upon the city, the light’s ghosting trough the heavy rain as it pelted down the streets.

Stephen Strange scowled out the window, the rain had made everything practically impossible today, or miserable at least. Everybody else seemed to be feeling it too.

Peter was sick, curled up in his room, to die a death of the plague swaddled in blankets. Well maybe not a death, but he was moaning like he was dying.

A similar sickness would soon be upon Tony most likely. He refused to keep his distance from the kid, despite Peter nearly being twenty. The billionaire kept him company most of the day, watching old movies he liked, curled up in the bed with the poor boy, before he had to go to a meeting. It didn’t exactly help that he’d gotten drenched by the time he made it there.

As much as Stephen loved his son, he was not about to get sick. He hated being sick. So he was perfectly content to sit back and be the doctor of the household.

“Babe.” Tony spoke from behind him, the doctor turned round to see Tony in nothing but a towel from the waist up. “Play me something nice will you?” He grinned, and Stephens gaze traced to the violin hung on the wall, the bow alongside it.

He’d stopped playing along time ago, after he moved to New York. Mummy had sent it over for him, but he rarely touched it, he’d played it once for Christine just the Happy Birthday song, the simplest in the book.

Tony had been begging ever since he put it up, it was a memento more than anything, a reminder of lessons with his brother. The amount of bows they broke playing swordfights when the teacher left the room, still made him smile.

It wasn’t like he could play anymore, even if he wanted to.

“No.” He replied with a smirk. “As much as this is a nice view, I’d rather not have a sick husband as well. Go put some clothes on.” Tony rolled his eyes, pushing himself up to kiss the taller man as he walked over.

“Spoil sport.” The engineer poked his tongue out before walking to their bedroom.

Then the doorbell rang.

It caught Stephen off guard. It was ten o’clock at night, who on earth would be out in this weather anyway?

He ran to the door of their apartment, opening it to the person he was least expecting.

Sherlock Holmes.

He was soaked to the bone, his trench-coat darkened with the water, hair matted and soaked to his forehead. His teeth were chattering, and it was a miracle that his skin hadn’t turned blue with the cold.

“Sherlock? Oh god, you gotta be freezing, get in here before you die of hypothermia.” He ordered, grabbing his brother by the arm, his hand finding Sherlock’s wrist, feeling for his pulse. Suddenly his comment on hypothermia seemed a lot less of a joke, considering his brother currently had the blood-flow of a snowman. “You can give me your explanations in a second, you need to get warmer and fast.” The door slammed shut behind them, and he dragged the detective to their bathroom, taking off his coat for him, undog his shirt buttons knowing he wouldn’t be able to, his hands were shaking worse than Stephens own.

“You can do the rest. Shower, now.”

Begrudgingly the younger twin undressed the rest of the way, slipping behind the shower glass and turning on the water, as Stephen sat on the toilet seat waiting for the glass to fog up.

“God this is crazy, you didn’t tell me you were coming.” He spoke, unsure if Sherlock could even hear him. “You might as well wash your hair while you’re there, Tony’s stuff will do you well, nice and manly.” He spoke a little louder that time, making sure he was heard, before getting up to find his aforementioned husband.

“Tony?” He called.

“Yeah what’s up? I’m making grilled cheese, I thought we could just watch a movie, something chill, y’know?” Tony called from the kitchen.

Stephen rolled his eyes, hugging the shorter man from behind, leaning to press a kiss to his neck before he spoke. “Make a fourth, we have an unexpected guest. I’ll be right back, I need to put some clothes in the dryer.”

“Uh, okay?”

Sherlock was standing with a towel round his waist, when Stephen walked back in and threw the clothes at him. “What-“ He asked, his voice was hoarse, like he’d been crying, or shouting.

Sherlocks hair was slicked back away from his face, and a bright purple bruise at his cheekbone, just below his eyes was incredibly noticeable. Stephen tried not to falter in his confidence. “Pyjamas, warm, comfortable. I’m considerably lacking in a thousand-dollar suits at the moment.” He offered a grin as Sherlock rolled his eyes, getting dressed. His accent falling away as he spoke more to his brother, it didn’t feel right talking to him in the New York drawl he’d picked up over the years. “Tony’s making cheese toasties, you use to love them remember?”

“I haven’t forgotten my own tastes Stephenander.”

“Oh, we’re playing the full-name-game, this must be serious, William.” Stephen replied. “You’re going to tell me what happened.” He added as they walked out into the kitchen, their apartment was fairly open plan, a lot less cluttered than Sherlock was used to.

“Evening Tony, you’re looking well.” Sherlock spoke, gaining back the power in his voice.

“Sherlock? What’re you doing here, man? You know we were coming to see you guys in like a month, right?” Tony replied, pulling him into a hug, the signature pat on the back before pulling away.

“Yes, but desperate times.” He offered a laughed as Tony handed him a plate. “Thank you.”

“I’m gonna check up on the kid, you guys talk it out.” The engineer replied as Stephen took his own plate, and sat at the table, gesturing that Sherlock sit opposite him.

“Okay, what’s going on? You didn’t even tell me you were coming.” Stephen asked,

“I didn’t know I was coming until yesterday.”

“How the hell did you get a flight to New York so close to Christmas?”

“Oh, don’t rub it in.”

“You’d’ve had to book that months in advance.”

“The privileges of your brother being the British government. ”

“Okay never mind _how_ , I wanna know _why_.”

“John and I had a fight.”

“You argue all the time, you texted me last week about how his preference of milk was absurd.”

“Not an argument Stephen. A fight.” Sherlocks tone was impatient. “I said something, something really nasty, and I shoved him. He didn’t expect it, neither did I, but I shoved him, he tripped back and hit his head. The next thing he hit me, and I was out the door.”

“John hit you?”

“Yeah.” Then he frowned noticing the anger growing on Stephen’s face. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. This is the first time; the only other time was when I asked him to.”

“So that’s what you’re into.”

“I will castrate you, eviscerate you, and hang your entrails over the balcony, this is serious Stephenander, I don’t know what to do.”

“You could start by being nice. It would be so easy for me to kick you out.”

“You won’t.”

“I won’t. You couldn’t have gone to Mycroft?”

“God no, he’s spending the holidays with Graham, and I’m not about to have either of us filed for domestic abuse by the DI of Scotland Yard.”

“Mycroft’s partner is called Greg.”

“Greg, Graham, what’s the difference?”

“Four letters.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pressing his hands together, and placing them under his chin, eyes closed. “I couldn’t go to Molly either, not after what I put her through for years, and to hell if I’d ask Stamford for anything more.”

“So, you came here, where he couldn’t chase you.”

Sherlock was silent.

“He does know where you are, right? _Sherlock?_ ”

More silence.

“Oh god, you could’ve offed yourself for all he knows! It wouldn’t be the first time! You, stupid idiot, the man is blindly in love with you, can’t you imagine how he’s torturing himself?”

“I don’t know what to do, Stephen.”

This was one of the only times he’d ever seen his brother hit so low. Mycroft had the displeasure of dealing with him as the drug junkie and putting him in rehab. But somehow, he seemed to be worse off after this.

It wasn’t very often that Sherlock didn’t know what to do.

“This is the first time he’s hit you, right?” Sherlock nodded. “And you’re still in love with him?”

“I think so, I don’t really know how to define the feeling of love. I don’t know, he just makes me feel safe, or at home. Warm, he gives me warmth.”

“You still want to be with him.”

“Yes of course I do. He’s… He’s everything, he keeps me right, him and Rosie, they’re all I have, we’re a family, albeit an odd one.”

“So, it doesn’t matter that he hit you, it was a one-off and you’re gonna go back to normal.”

“It never mattered that he hit me!” Sherlock groaned, placing a hand over his face, pinching his brow in such disappointment that Stephen felt like that should have been obvious, even though it very clearly wasn’t. “I don’t care about it. _I_ provoked it, _he’s_ a soldier, it was his instincts, or a knee-jerk reaction to being assaulted. I don’t care. _He_ will. His dad was an abusive alcoholic, he’ll think he’s following the same path, he’ll want to distance himself, break up, so he can’t hurt me.” Sherlock was crying now; the tears fell down his face and he didn’t even acknowledge them.

“He’s in love with you.”

“That’s the point.”

“I’m going to London.”

Sherlock laughed bitterly. “You won’t get a flight.”

“I won’t need one, London has a sanctum, ten-minute walk from baker street if I remember the map. The sanctum has a gateway to all the others.”

“Right, I still don’t quite understand your work.”

“I haven’t a clue about yours, consider us equal.” He gave sherlock a smile. “My violin is on the wall, don’t torture it, if you need a cigarette, you can have one, and only one. I’ll be back in two hours tops.” Stephen replied pushing himself up and heading to his and Tony’s bedroom. If he was passing through the sanctum portals he may as well do it in style.

Besides, his robes were warmer than most other clothes he owned.

“Those are just for show.” Sherlock spoke pointedly as he walked past to the door.

“Yes, but I look fantastic.”

“Stephen?”

“What, Lockie?”

“Tell him, John, tell him I want to come home.”

“See you later, Lockie.”

 

Stephen was at the door of 221b Baker Street within twenty minutes of leaving the apartment building.

It was five in the morning for them, he hoped that somebody was up or else he’d be forced to use a portal to get in there.

Fortunately, he was greeted at the door by an elderly lady in a nightdress and a dressing gown. She squinted at him, before frowning.

“Sherlock where’ve you been! John has been worried sick, get inside you awful man!” She scolded him, folding her arms across his chest.

“I take it he hasn’t told you then. I’m really sorry, but I’m not Sherlock, he’s currently in my home in New York. I’m his twin brother, Dr. Stephen Stark, pleasure to meet you.” He held out a hand, almost sure that if it weren’t for her poor eyesight and tiredness that she would have pointed out the scars on his fingers, but like he expected she just shook it, smiling at him.

“Martha Hudson, you may come in, you must be freezing out there.”

“Thank you, I’m here to see John, is he home?” Stephen asked, unsure if he would be, considering.

“He’ll be in his room, that man could sleep for England. I’ll pop on a pot of earl grey, he might be a little cranky, they had a bit of a domestic last night. Always bickering, it’s like they’ve been married for years.” She laughed, patting him on the shoulder.

“Tea will be lovely, thank you, ma’am.”

“They’re up the stairs, their bedroom’s just through the kitchen.”

With that Stephen was climbing up the seventeen stairs to his brother’s apartment. The one he was supposed to be seeing a month from now under organised circumstances.

Carefully he opened the door to what he supposed to be their bedroom. It still baffled him, Sherlock barely slept when they were teenagers, never mind shared a bed with anyone.

Sure enough, there John was. With an opened bottle of painkillers tipped to the floor, a few falling out onto the hardwood, not enough for that bottle to have been reasonably full when it tipped.

John lay in their bed, unmoving. He didn’t even have the blankets over him, he was just curled into himself in his clothes, his shoes were chucked to the side of the bed. In the dark Stephen wasn’t even sure he was breathing. And a blaze of panic set into his chest as his blood ran cold through his veins.

“Oh god, John!” He cried, his hand finding the other doctor’s neck, feeling for a pulse, there was one, but it was slow. He shook John, praying to god the man still had the power to wake up.

He groaned, opening his eyes, squinting up at the taller man. “Sh’lock?” His voice was tired, filled with sleep and gravelly.

“No, John. It’s me, Stephen.”

John squeezed his eyes shut, breathing out a groan. “What’re you shaking me for?”

“How many of those pills did you take?” Stephen asked, insistent.

“What? Two, that’s the recommended for adults.”

“Oh god. I’m sorry, I just, you knocked the bottle over I just thought-“

“Thought what?” John had pushed himself up now, and Stephen was no longer looming over him. “That I tried to off myself on paracetamol.” He laughed, and Stephen could’ve facepalmed. “I’m not a genius but I’m no idiot.”

“You’re a doctor. I panicked alright. Do you know why I’m here?”

John’s eyes widened, and he pushed himself up, grabbing his shoes and walking out of the bedroom, briskly enough that the taller man had to run to catch up, only to see the man pulling his boots on, and reaching for his coat, clearly in a rush. “Look, I know it wont matter but I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what happened, I just saw red. If you’re going to beat my shit in can you do it outside? I don’t want Rosie coming home from her sleepover to find me knocked out in the living room.”

Stephen grabbed his arm before he could put his coat on. John turned to him, a look of fear on his face, but he quickly covered it with neutrality.

“John. I’m not here to hurt you. Sherlock told me what happened, I just want to talk. Your housekeeper will be bringing some tea up in a minute.”

They ended up sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. Mrs Hudson brought up a teapot and two mugs, John offered her a weak smile of thanks before she left.

“Landlady.” John murmured, breaking the silence.

“What?”

John glanced up at him, after pouring their mugs. “You called her our housekeeper. She’s not. She’s our landlady, god forbid you say otherwise to her face.”

“Alright, shall we discuss this then?”  

“Oh god, that doesn’t sound good. Do you know where he is? I called Mycroft, he has no clue.”

“Liar. Sherlock’s at our apartment, Mycroft got him the flight, or he helped him at least.”

John nearly choked on his tea, barely hiding a splutter he went to reply. “He’s in New York? Is he okay? How’s he coping? I suppose he’s been mouthing off about all my shortcomings now he’s annoyed with me. He does that when he decides to hate somebody, maybe I’ll finally learn how Anderson feels.”

“He told me what happened. Said you two fought, can I ask what about?”

“Rosie, our daughter. He wanted to send her to boarding-school.”

“And then he said something horrible and shoved you over the coffee table?”

“Brothers indeed, you’re just as forthright.” John laughed, and Stephen shrugged. “I just have something built in my head about boarding schools being where toft bell-ends send their kids because they can’t be arsed to look after them.”

“Mycroft, Sherlock and I all went to boarding school.”

“I know that, you twat. I’ve met your parents and I know they’re lovely. But it was subconscious, and I didn’t think. Me, the emotional man, and I hurt him with that. I said something about refusing to send my daughter away. He said something about her may as well only having one father, considering his suggestions are _never_ considered. He shoved me, I hit my head and- a-and I-“

John choked, turning his head to the table, he placed a hand over his mouth to try and silence the sobs that he choked out. He bit down on his fist.

“You punched him.” Stephen finished softly, and John nodded head still dropped down, still crying. “John. He told me before I left to tell you that he wants to come home.”

“He does? He can’t, what- what if I- I-I might hit him again- a-and I can’t- I won’t-“

“John. You were provoked, you aren’t stupid, I need you to realise that you aren’t your father. What you are is a soldier, and no matter how many years it’s been, you still have instincts.” Stephen spoke gently, keeping his tone like he used when he comforted Peter in sensory overload. “Sherlock injured you as well, don’t let yourself forget that. He’s just as wrong as you are, and just as sorry.”

“Sherlock apologising? Liar.” John replied, laughing if defeatedly, sniffing, and wiping his nose on his jumper sleeve. “How come you’re here and he isn’t?”

“There’s no way in hell Mycroft would do him another favour so soon. I could get here in twenty minutes by foot, rather than an eight-hour flight.” The doctor told him. “There are three sanctums, London, Hong Kong, and New York. I’m the master of the one on Bleecker Street. But there are, I guess you’d call them portals, to the two others, and Kamar-taj, the training grounds. It was convenient if anything.”

John laughed, shaking his head. “Forgive me for not taking it in.”

“All is forgiven. I was a bit more of a prick about it when I first learned, I’ll give you credit.” Stephen replied, offering him a smile. “So, you aren’t breaking up with him?”

“Not if he still wants me.”

“Great. I’ll have to be getting back, my grilled cheese will be cold and my son is ill. Duty calls, y’know?”

“Here, can you tell him something for me?”

“Of course.”

“Tell him, you’re a git and I love you, but I’m not in a million years sending our daughter away.”

“Of course. I’ll get him back to you as soon as I can. You know how clingy he can be. I must be off, Peter will have him seven to one at scrabble by now.”

“Sherlock’s good at scrabble.” John spoke pointedly, quirking up an eyebrow.

Stephen smiled, the type that Sherlock gave when he was holding back a laugh. “So is Peter.”

 

Stephen burst into the apartment, to find Peter on the floor in a fit of laughter, his duvet flopped over the top of him, and scrabble pieces littering the floor. Sherlock was leaning forward, giggling, a glass of some sort of alcohol in his hand.

“What on earth is going on here?” Stephen asked, folding his arms after he sent the cloak off to wherever it decided to go. “Feeling better then Peter?” He asked, pouring himself a drink, non-alcoholic though.

“How was London Dad-S? I’ve always wanted to go.”

“I didn’t see much of it as a matter of fact. Brother mine, I do hope you plan on picking up these scrabble pieces.”

“Get your cape to do it, Peter told me it does stuff.” Sherlocks words were slurred, and there was a laugh on his lips. He was further than a little tipsy. “Magic business isn’t it?”

“It’s the _cloak_ of levitation for a start. And it only does things it prefers to do, considering scrabble pieces aren’t vital to my health I doubt it.”

“Hey, the cloak likes me, lets me wear it sometimes.” Peter replied, rolling over and pushing himself up onto his elbows so he wasn’t looking at his dad upside-down.

“What? When was this?”

“Its not an affair Stephenander, children like to play dress up.” He broke out into a laugh, the drunk sort of laughter that started with a snigger, and he fell back against the sofa cushions.

“He’s twenty, and its and ancient artefact, that should only have one owner.”

“Your name is Stephenander? That’s ridiculous.” Peter laughed, falling back to the floor in another fit of giggles.

“At least it isn’t alliterative, Starker.” Peter had kept his surname in the adoption, but it was a running gag to mix their surnames at this point.

“It was Stephen Strange, now it’s Stephen Stark, your case doesn’t hold much.” Tony called from wherever in the house he was.

“He used to be a Holmes, I’ll have you know!” Sherlock called back giddily, taking another sip of his drink.

“Thanks Lockie.” The doctor rolled his eyes. “Jesus what did Tony do to you.”

“I gave him scotch, how was I supposed to know he’s a lightweight? How did things go with John?” Tony answered, pulling him down by the robes to kiss him quickly.

Sherlock had opened his mouth to protest being a lightweight but stopped upon hearing his boyfriends name. “John? Oh fuck, John! Is he okay? He doesn’t hate me does he?” He asked, standing up on wobbly legs, grabbing Stephen by the shoulders to look him in the eye.

“He told me to tell you this, and these are his exact words. You’re a git and I love you, but I'm not in a million years sending our daughter away.”

“ _Our_ daughter.” Sherlock grinned, turning to flop back onto the sofa. “He said that?”

“Photographic memory.” Tony replied.

“I don’t know how much I’d trust him though, he said you were _good_ at scrabble.”

“I am!”

“I beat him because he spent the entire game writing ‘you’re a prick’ on the board.”

“I think we all need to go to bed, it’s too late for any of us to be up, considering Peter may have given us all the plague.”

Sherlock slumped from the sofa to the floor, wrapping his arms around Peter for a hug. “Don’t be mean! _I’m_ going to adopt him now, he can live in baker street with us.” Sherlock spoke, indignant to Peter squirming to get comfortable. Eventually the young man gave up and went limp, leaning against his uncle.

“You can try, Holmes.” Tony challenged.

“Try me Stark.”  

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Peter protested, trying to pull away from Sherlock who held him back against his chest.

“Stop it, you’re warm and I’m cold.” Sherlock ordered. Tony gave Stephen a look, they both knew fine rightly if Peter wanted to be freed he could easily overpower the detective, the spider-kid was just a sucker for hugs.

“You’re an ice monster from Great Britain and I’m sick.” Peter replied.

Sherlock ruffled his hair from behind. “I have an international reputation; do you have an international reputation?”

“Yes, I'm the son of a wizard and a genius.”

“And Tony Stark, don’t forget.” Sherlock replied, smirking up at the engineer.

“Hey!”

“Peter, bed, now.” Stephen ordered, and reluctantly Sherlock let him go. “You can crash on the sofa, I’ll get you a blanket.

Tony head off, after finishing his glass.

By the time Stephen came back Sherlock was crying again, this time he was staring out of the glass doors at the balcony, still sat on the floor, but shaking as broken sobs fell from his lips. Rolling his eyes, Stephen threw the blanket over him, before sitting beside him.

“You did this before remember?”

“I did?” Sherlock replied, once he’d adjusted the blanket, so it was draped round his shoulders.

“When we were in school. You used to sit and watch the rain, crying because you missed Redbeard.” Stephen remembered clear as day, those nights when Sherlock would get up, he liked to look at the sky, study the stars, but when he got more into practical science for detective work, he forgot all he knew about space.  

The younger twin grumbled, leaning against the doctor. “John is more important than a dog, cuter too.”

“Christ you are so drunk.” Stephen laughed.

“’m not! I do mean it. I got drunk with him once, his bachelor thingy, I wanted to track something, and he fucked with my drinks.”

“Only you.”

“I nearly told him then. That I thought he was cute. I didn’, he was getting married soon so he couldn’t know.” He laughed. “They made up a friend called Beth, to talk about me an’ they thought I didn’ know!”

“You miss him then?”

“A lot. Why’m I here?”

“You got a flight because you punched your boyfriend. I went to make sure he didn’t die. And you got drunk and called my son a prick via scrabble.”

“He is a prick, he’s cleverer than me.” Sherlock replied, pushing himself up so he was lying on the sofa, one lanky leg draped over the side, and a blanket thrown

“Tragic. Get some sleep, brother dearest. We’ll have you home for Christmas.”


End file.
